THIS WEEK IN REVIEW 15th-22nd March

Brought to you byElke Stekhoven and Hayley Stockall.

Review of the time I stood in my kitchen screaming “FEMINISM” as I tried to open a jar

– Elke Stekhoven

I had a jar. It was hard to open. I was alone and the garlic was burning. I briefly wished that a strong dude was around to open it for me but then my mind bitch-slapped itself and before I knew it I was yelling “…FEMINISMMM…” to my empty house and before I knew it again I was doubled-over laughing hysterically in my empty house with my jar unopened and my onions going way past ideal caramelisation, so really it was not that effective.

But then I bashed the jar on the counter a few times and opened it and saved my Bolognese, and thus I remained the heroine of my own story and mistress of my own destiny.

I choose the table closest to the cold-room door. Wafts of cold air hit me each time the Pie Face employees refill stock. This is good. Two middle-aged women sit at the table in front of me. A tradie sits at the table behind me. Both tables are engaged in filling out paperwork. This is not so good for eavesdropping purposes. I wait.

The two middle-aged women in front of me appear to be discussing contracts. One has a Pie Face shirt on. The colour does not suit her, but working in a pie shop probably doesn’t suit her either. Life is rollercoaster, baby, you just got to ride it. They mention social media. They mention Facebook. The smart-dressed woman (district manager? Regional manager? CEO OF PIE FACE?!?!?!) tells Pie Face woman that “you’ve got to watch the younger employees, they get on their Facebooks and they start slagging off Pie Face and before you know it you’ve got a public liability case on your hands”. I find this statement erroneous as in my experience it is the middle-aged women who get onto Facebook and fuck things up by posting a comment asking how your father’s rehabilitation is going in plain sight on your profile picture.

I notice a sign behind the counter that is a reminder to the employees that they cannot plug their own iPods into the stereo system. “PIE FACE MUSIC ONLY”, it decrees. I worry about the corruptibility of a franchise that serves a national delicacy to an unsuspecting public. The tradie sighs behind me, and asks the ridiculous man behind the counter for “another sausage roll, please”. I gather my things and leave Pie Face, muttering under my breath that “I wash my hands of this”, but actually I really do need to wash the tomato sauce off them.